The bells of Leonidus rang in triumph that night, their bronze throats singing through the misted valleys.

From the towers to the courtyards, torches flared like veins of fire across the stone, and banners of violet and gold fluttered in the wind. The House of Leonidus was alive again.

Inside the great hall, the smell of roasted venison and honeyed wine filled the air, mingling with the perfume of nobles and the faint, metallic breath of the hearths. The laughter of lords echoed beneath the ribbed arches like the hum of a distant storm.

At the head of the table sat Viscount Augustus, radiant and reborn. His face was bright with color, his posture proud. To anyone else, it would seem as though the gods themselves had blessed him. But Aiden, standing behind the chair to his right, could still feel the pulse of something darker beneath that vigor—his eyes seeing the lace of his incubus charm.

He masked his awareness with a polite smile.

When the feast began, Augustus lifted his cup high.

"To victory, to my daughter Flora, and to the one who made it possible—Sir Aiden of the Leonidus!"

A cheer rose from the crowd. Cups clinked, silver flashed, and Aiden inclined his head in modest acknowledgment. He had been lauded before, but never like this—never by men who had once seen him as nothing more than a blade to be used and forgotten.

Lilith's voice stirred in his mind, cool and velvet.

[Lilith asks if you feel it, her knight?.... Adoration—the sweetest poison of them all.]

He didn't answer. He only drank.

The musicians played softly while courtiers moved like tides of silk and ambition. Across the table, Flora sat in her ceremonial attire, the violet crest of her house stitched in silver thread upon her breastplate.

She looked composed, yet her eyes never stayed still—they darted, weighed, measured.

When she caught Aiden watching, she tilted her head slightly. A question, sharp as any blade, lingered there.

Later, when the toasts had faded into murmurs and the guests began to drift toward the dance floor, Flora approached him.

"You wear honor well," she said. "Too well, perhaps."

Aiden smiled faintly. "Is that accusation or compliment?"

"Whichever you prefer." She folded her arms, gaze narrowing. "My father speaks as though you saved the realm single-handedly. But tell me, Aiden—was it his pride you wanted to win… or something else?"

There was no anger in her tone, only curiosity edged with unease.

He could have lied easily. Yet something in her eyes demanded truth, or at least the shadow of it.

"You already know me flora, what I serve and what I want," he said quietly. "Of course.. what I serve is you, my lady." He beloud.n

Her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. For a heartbeat, the world around them faded—the laughter, the music, even the flames. Then she turned away, voice low.

"Careful, Sir Aiden. Words like that can bind tighter than vows."

As the feast wore on, Aiden's instincts tightened. Something in the air had shifted—the warmth of celebration turning brittle. The firelight seemed too bright, the laughter too forced.

Aiden's system pulsed faintly in his vision.

[Anomalous aura detected.]

[Source: Unidentified entity within 10 meters.]

His gaze flicked across the room. Nobles drank and joked, servants refilled goblets, and the band played a slow waltz. Nothing unusual—until he saw the shadow behind the tapestry near the west wall. It moved against the fire's direction.

Aiden excused himself quietly.

Behind the curtain, the corridor was empty save for flickering sconces. Yet the air felt charged, humming with something alive.

He followed the sensation down the passage until it stopped before a carved door—one that led to the old chapel beneath the manor.

He pressed his palm against the wood. It was cold, wet with condensation.

The moment he entered, silence devoured the sound of the feast above. The chapel was dim, the air heavy with wax and incense. Statues of long-forgotten saints lined the walls, their stone eyes blind and solemn.

Then, faintly, a whisper.

"—Aiden…"

The voice was female, fragile yet burning with something ancient.

He drew his dagger slowly.

A shape stood at the altar—cloaked, motionless. As he stepped closer, the figure turned, and his breath caught.

It was Catherine.

Her golden hair shimmered in the candlelight, her expression serene yet distant. But her eyes—her eyes glowed faintly, not with demonic red but with soft, golden fire.

"Cathe...," he murmured, lowering his weapon. "You should not be here alone."

"I could say the same to you," she replied softly. "Come here...."

Her words were calm, but the weight of them pressed against his ribs, as she pulled him inside.

The chapel's air hung thick and still, the candle flames guttering like hesitant breaths in the draft from the half-open door.

Shadows clung to the saints' niches, their carved faces impassive witnesses to secrets older than stone.

Aiden's dagger slipped back into its sheath with a whisper of leather, but his senses remained coiled—

Catherine—Viscountess of Leonidus, mother to Flora, Augustus's steadfast queen—stood at the altar's edge, her gown a cascade of midnight blue silk that caught the golden flicker of her eyes.

No, not just eyes: the glow pulsed softly, like embers banked beneath ash, ancient and alive.

She was a vision of regal poise, golden hair pinned in loose waves that framed her face like a halo of burnished sunlight, but the serenity cracked as she stepped forward, her breath coming in shallow, ragged pulls.

"Aiden," she murmured again, voice a silken thread frayed at the edges, and closed the distance in a rush that belied her station.

Her hands found his chest first—fingers splaying over the embroidered doublet of his feast attire, trembling with a hunger that bordered on violence.

"I've missed you... gods, how I've missed you." The words spilled out like a confession long dammed, her body pressing flush against his, the soft swell of her breasts heaving against his ribs as she rose on tiptoe, lips brushing his jaw in a fevered graze.

He felt the heat of her through the layers of silk and wool, the desperate grind of her hips seeking friction, but it was her eyes that arrested him—blue as storm-tossed seas, not the golden fire of before, but rimmed with it now, swirling with lust's raw edge.

Yet beneath the hunger lurked something fractured, a deep sadness that twisted like a knife in his gut.

She was no mere conquest unraveling; this was Catherine, the woman who'd borne Flora in fire and steel, who'd whispered counsel to Augustus in the dead of night, who'd stolen moments with Aiden in alcoves and shadowed gardens, her body a battlefield of stolen ecstasy.

Her fingers clawed downward, fumbling at his belt with frantic urgency, yanking the leather free before diving into his breeches.

The cool air kissed his skin as she freed him—his cock springing heavy and half-hard into her palm—and she wrapped her hand around it with a needy whimper, shaking the length with desperate strokes, thumb smearing the bead of pre-cum at the tip.

"Your dick... oh, Aiden, I've ached for it... every night, dreaming of how you fill me, stretch me until I break..." Her voice cracked on a sob of want, knees buckling as she sank toward the floor, lips parting to take him in, tongue darting out in ravenous anticipation.

But Aiden's hand shot out, cupping her chin—gentle yet firm, halting her descent. He pulled her up, searching those blue depths where gold flickered like trapped lightning.

Lust burned there, yes, but shadowed by sorrow, a hollow ache that mirrored the chapel's solemn hush.

"Catherine," he said softly, thumb tracing her lower lip, swollen and trembling. "What happened? This isn't just need.... Talk to me."

[ Catherine Von Leonidus

Personality: Lustful/ Depressed/ love

Status: permanent Charmed]

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